


A Bit Of A Trip (Into the Past)

by SprungSick



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, As in vibe i mean suffer, Friendship with techno over sam is now tommy's mentor, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Memory Loss, Minor Violence, Should i use that tag on Tommy more often? Probably, Slightly Gory Imagery, Technoblade Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Tommy and Techno vibe, TommyInnit Angst (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), but in technoblade's pov yuhhhh, screw you he's great, set after season two finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29034234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SprungSick/pseuds/SprungSick
Summary: Techno knew his position on the traitor called Tommy - he was a footnote in his history, an acrid memory of old. Their paths had crossed, their battle already told, their backs already stabbed. Their ending - one of bitter wrongs and grand destruction - was set. Done.One frustrating encounter later and a new problem to solve, he realizes that he may have ended the chapter, not the book.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Sam | Awesamdude & TommyInnit, Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & Technoblade & TommyInnit, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), ew ew ew ew ew ew ew (x1000)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 676
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	A Bit Of A Trip (Into the Past)

**Author's Note:**

> TW/CW: Memory loss, amnesia, slightly graphic imagery 
> 
> uhhhh, this got way out of hand-
> 
> Hehe more memory issues in the dsmp yes that's what we need

Word had gotten around about Dream’s imprisonment.

Despite using only a raise of his brow to convey any sort of response, he couldn’t deny his surprise - the nepotistic kid and amateur manipulator had failed to beat him even with an advantage. To think that the two could manage to defeat Dream - a person he had begun to suspect a god - would be to believe in fairy tales and old legends. Somehow, they defied his expectations. He decided to withhold any forming opinion until he learned of just what deception they used to complete their impossible feat. 

Life continued on. He tended to his growing array of farms, he tacitly enjoyed the company of Ranboo and Phil, he ignored the continuous chatter pinging sharp in the back of his mind. Nothing - nothing, he angrily whispered in the din of the solitary night - had been or would be affected by his distant ally’s defeat. 

On a clear day - with weather so mild he chanced shedding a layer - Sam appeared through the snow.

He schooled himself neutral, forcing his hands to continue running over the machinations of his honey storage. With practiced patience, he waited for Sam’s green form to cross into his territory. A naive, optimistic part of him hoped the other had simply dipped close while on his own adventure; his shoulders and back still ached from wood-gathering the day before, he would rather not engage in a fight. Sam dashed his wishful thoughts with a raise of his hand. 

“Does everyone know where I live now? What’s the point of moving out here if I’m still going to get visitors?” He groaned. 

Sam chuckled, his shoulders bouncing slightly under his heavy traveler’s cloak. He quickly noticed the hardness shielding under his thick coat and pants - were he to guess, he would assume Sam had worn his usual attire before adding warmer apparel. Thoughtlessly, he scrounged up old battles fought against opponents in gold. A strange lump protruded out from his left side, as if Sam were lifting up his arm under the material.

“Not everyone knows,” Sam said lightly, the royal jade of his cloak collecting flecks of white from the ground. “Was a bit of a challenge, actually, to get directions to your place.” 

He nodded carelessly and kept his feet planted wide. “Cool. I don’t suppose I can just ask you to leave?” 

Behind the gold of his helmet, Sam winced. “I’ll leave in a bit. I just have something to ask of you.” 

“Yeah? What is it?” 

“Well, I-” He turned, not bothering to check whether Sam matched his strides - not only could Sam easily keep pace, he also would prefer the slim possibility of Sam leaving altogether. “I don’t suppose you and Tommy made amends or something?” 

His feet stopped leaving imprints in the snow. With the hatred slowly swelling in his chest, he was surprised it didn’t melt where he stood. 

Sam continued easily, as if he hadn’t just spat in his face and insulted his foundations. “Obviously, no problem if not - it would just be a lot easier if you did.” 

“I have not.” 

The vitriol in his own voice momentarily startled him - his aim had been indifferent ice, not hardened hurt. He turned back fully - hand retracing the path to his axe as it had many times before - to catch Sam ducking his head.

“Okay then,” Sam sighed, his left arm shifting closer to himself. “Damn. I came all the way out here on the off-chance that you were, but- agh. Do you know of anyone that is on good terms? Like, Phil- no. You know what, let me just-” 

Foreboding dread intermingled with the rage broiling in his gut, its macabre fingers only encouraged by chat’s whispers and tales. He cocked his head through the clench of his jaw. 

Sam unfurled his left arm in a dazzle of luxurious green and sprinkling white, exposing his spleen and ribs for an easy attack. 

His axe left its sheathe before he even blinked. 

“Why did you bring him here,” He murmured, the emotions destroying his insides just barely contained. He felt his vision narrow slim, his hands tremble from restraint, his mind fill with a cacophony of impassioned threats and complacent words. 

Hunched into himself on the other side of his axe was none other than Tommy. 

Tommy visibly flinched, his hands raised to either pretend to surrender or push the edge away. It wouldn’t matter which way the snake attempted to slither - under what could only be described as a ridiculously oversized parka, he could tell that only light clothing protected Tommy’s vulnerable points. His feet’s positioning barely constituted as a stance, the curling of his upper body inappropriate for offense; he looked more like a frightened beginner than he had in his first fight. Bitter anger swelled at the opportunity and pushed the edge of his axe forward. 

Sam’s arm - a weak physical defense at best, yet brimming with a potential alliance that urged him into a pause - barricaded away Tommy as he stumbled in the snow. 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Tommy repeated hastily, sounding as if just moments before he hadn’t been concealing himself under the pretense of amity. With a satisfying thump, he watched the traitor shrink into the snow where his armored boots could easily land. 

“Wait- okay-” Techno spared a furtive glance to the side, more focused on supervising Tommy than being a considerate listener- “I realize now that this was a bad idea. Please put your axe down- we can still be civil.” 

“I told him I would kill him if he set foot in my territory. Unlike him, I am not a liar,” He replied bluntly. Tommy momentarily lowered his hands before thrusting them back over his head. 

“Yeah, well- look. Just trust me on this one. Tommy isn’t going to steal anything, I think. Or really- well- do anything, honestly.” 

A not insignificant part of him screamed to spill blood and add to the ever-expanding morgue nestled into his head - a more rational side, however, reminded him that such actions were not bound to a specific time. Stiffly, he lowered his axe and watched the weasel practically scramble back into Sam’s side. 

His fingers clenched around an imaginary neck when Tommy faked a stammer. “Uh- hi. You- you don’t like me at all, do you?” 

“What makes you think that,” He huffed sharply, each muscle coiled around rods of energizing rage. “Was it the big speeches? Or was it me destroying L’Manburg?” 

Tommy merely donned a baffled mask as Sam settled a hand on his shoulder. 

“Look-” Sam ran his free hand over his helmet- “I get it. Bad idea. I don’t know what I was thinking. Let me just - do you know where Tubbo is? He’s probably a good bet.” 

Despite being very obviously lacking in information, he couldn’t bring himself to do much other than untense his arms before they snapped. Tommy sprung up with insidious eagerness at the name. 

“Yeah! Let’s go to Tubbo! He’s very nice, I remember. A lot nicer than…” He trailed off, eyes quickly glancing up to his before returning to Sam’s. 

“What?” He snapped, the spike in his chest worsening with each breath. “Do you hate me so much that you don’t even want to say my name? Don’t even want to call me the Blade?” 

“The Blade,” Tommy murmured under his breath. In a poor attempt to ease the tensions pulling taught between them all, Sam clasped his hands together.

“He doesn’t- Tommy, this is Technoblade.” 

His head jerked up, the hatred clouding his vision clearing. The wording of the statement, the tone - it sounded as if Sam was introducing him to a stranger, not chiding the kid into remembering the levity of their situation. Confusion slowly sunk between the uproarious chanting and stinging memories. 

Tommy looked at him with a concerningly open gaze, the look completely foreign for a face more used to shrewd glares and shattering screams. 

“Does- did he forget me or something?” He asked - disbelief slammed into him so harshly he loosened his grip on his axe. 

“Don’t be offended,” Sam replied, exhaustion sinking into every crevice of his form. “He doesn’t remember anyone.” 

***

Ironically, he didn’t remember why he let the two into his house. 

Tommy immediately occupied himself with soaking up the cabin’s interior, his gaze wandering between each souvenir and weapon-rack and shelf gleaming with ancient runes - although he had renovated to create more space, it jarred him to see Tommy so openly unfamiliar with his place. He pointed them to sit at his table - the wood still carried scratches from Tommy’s careless nails - which both did without complaint. In the corner of his eye, he watched Tommy fold his hands as he alternated between looking up and at Sam. 

Tommy said ‘thank you’ when he slammed a scorching mug of tea onto his fingers.

He felt more off-kilter in his own home than he had at his execution. 

“So,” He grunted, settling into the nook of his chair. “Tommy has amnesia or something?” 

Sam spared a glance to his side before sweeping his arms across the table - in the warmth of his home, Sam had stripped to just his elaborate armor. “Somewhat. I don’t think he lost them from an injury or anything - you know how Dream was imprisoned, right?” 

He nodded, finger tapping lightly against his cup. Tommy glanced into his eyes before immediately curling away. 

“Right. So-” Sam scratched at the gold concealing his cheek- “Tommy wasn’t showing any signs of a concussion when we showed up, or in the hours after. They were both pretty banged up, but coherent. Then, when he came over to my place the next day, he had no idea who I was.” 

“Did you check for any signs of a fight?” He asked, theories already forming in the rational part of his brain. Sam scoffed. 

“Of course. My first thought was that he got into a fight, but - nope. Nothing but the injuries from Dream. I think all of the- uh, conflict, I guess- just became too much for his mind to handle. So, to shield itself, it decided to lock away all memories of us completely.”

Tommy focused firmly on a piece of leather hanging from the ceiling. The tips of his ears flushed a violent pink, his back hunching down farther than before - Sam’s hand reached out in assurance before silently retracting. 

“So he’s blocked us all off?” Shreds of anger revived in his stomach, the vindictive need for revenge burning under his skin. “He doesn’t remember anything that’s happened, any of the wars he’s fought?” 

“I’m right here you know,” Tommy muttered. His sour look immediately vanished beneath apprehension the second the words escaped his lips. 

“He remembers bits,” Sam elaborated. “Mostly feelings towards other people. Other than that, he’s pretty much a blank slate.” 

Chat began to shriek over his dead friend. He hurriedly pushed away the similarities and levelled a weighing stare towards Tommy’s skittish form. 

“And you brought him to me because?” 

Tommy flinched sharply as Sam spoke. “I know you two have history, so. I was hoping that you could help him remember more stuff - honestly, as much as I want to help, I don’t know too much about him. Is there anything that comes to mind?” 

“It won’t work,” Tommy mumbled, fragments of his old bitter self repossessing this strange clone. “I- I don’t think anything he can say will help.” 

“Why’s that?” He attempted to refrain from sounding too harsh - Tommy’s face crumbled all the same. For not the first time, he wondered if the lost duckling before him could truly be the same soldier he had defeated. 

“Well- you really hate me, right?” Tommy coughed and averted his eyes before even chancing a response. “So much so that you must have- all I feel from you is fear, Mr. Techno. I don’t know if those memories are worth remembering.” 

Thick silence hung in the air, the room freezing despite the fire crackling brightly just a few feet away. He stared - unsure, uncertain, completely at a loss in both words and moves - at the kid who preferred to bleed needlessly over exposing his back. He stared as that very same kid looked away and displayed his neck.

Chat reminded him that in normal social situations, the responsibility landed on him to discover the heart of Tommy’s words. 

“Mr. Techno?” He asked instead, the collective mental face-palm sending vibrations down his scalp. 

“He does that sometimes,” Sam interjected. Tommy whipped towards him as if he had bestowed upon him the sun - Sam motioned towards his cup and Tommy hastily drank. 

“It’s polite,” Tommy replied, voice reedy as a thump came from what probably was his knee. “You address your elders with- with honorifics. I- I- that’s what they do, in the city.” 

For how often he heard Tommy yammer, learning of his origins just then felt somewhat strange. “Right. Anyways. Have you tried just, bringing him to L’manberg? Or sticking him on Tubbo?” 

Sam’s head snapped up, the sharpest movement he had seen all day - Tommy winced and occupied himself with his mug. “Are you serious?” 

Strangely, he felt the urge to rescind his statement. He chose to look away instead; hopefully, Sam would find the answer he desired within his stiff silence. 

“No,” Sam sighed, his hand scrubbing away the tautness of his own shoulder. “That would be- no. Tubbo already has his own issues to work through, to force him to- just. No. Besides, we already found that he responds better to objects generally associated with his past, not places. Which is a bit of a shame, because- well.” 

A guilty whisper filled in what Sam had refused to finish - most of Tommy’s past had been razed into dust. Morbidly, he wondered if stuffing ash down Tommy’s throat could spark any memories. 

“Sam told me about the discs,” Tommy piped up, infuriatingly unaware of the secret conversation taking place. Sam nodded approvingly. 

“Did he tell you about anything else?” He questioned - despite his wishes, chat began to shout suggestions of both light-hearted and malicious mementos. “Anything about swords? Or buttons? Or golden apples?”

Tommy tilted his head. “Uh, n- not really. Tubbo told me about a few I could use. He- I visited my pet cemetery, that was a fun one.” 

An idea formed in his head. 

He stood up abruptly, the venomous poison he had fought to bury in retirement both resurfacing and assuaging the sting of Tommy’s jolt. In a few purposeful strides he smoothed his hands over his ender chest - in one flick, he found himself rifling past the tightly-packed jewels and bundles of potions. 

When he found what he needed, he turned. Chat cackled gleefully at the skull flaking in his hand. 

“Do you know what this is?” He asked softly, hatred settling wrong and grating just under his skin. The feeling grew as Tommy’s face twisted and turned, scrunched and went lax - a disgusting sense of victory arose when he watched it contort in horror. Tommy - much to the delight of the retribution slowly consuming him - seemed to fight with himself, transfixed, as if this single wither skull could either destroy his soul or grant him infinite wealth. 

Sam rose to his feet and slammed his hands down. 

“He doesn’t need to see that yet,” Sam hissed, more fury in his voice than he had ever heard before. 

Another awkward pause stretched as they settled into their impasse - Techno against Sam, Tommy against the confusion blatantly scrawling against his face. At last, Sam sighed and looked away. 

“I’ll help,” He blurted airily, the detachment of his vitriol still coursing through his blood. “I think I know a few things that would help him remember. Besides, you already know the location of my home.” 

Sam scrubbed at his helmet, rubbing as if he thought the gold’s luster hid the answers he seeked. “Alright. Okay. We better leave before it gets too dark for us to travel. Thank you for your hospitality, Technoblade.” 

With a light pat of Tommy’s shoulder, Sam began to re-don his layers of warmth in the now freezing quiet. He quickly composed himself, guided Tommy out of his seat, and strode towards the door in a flurry of begrudging green. 

Just before he passed the threshold, Sam turned back and lightly pushed Tommy into the cold. “Go on ahead. I’ll catch up to you really soon, okay?” 

Tommy nodded slightly before disappearing in the fields of forgettable, senseless snow - as Sam exhaled heavily from where he guarded the entrance, Techno felt what little anger left restrained snap free. 

“You will not hurt him,” Sam murmured, each of his words imbibed with rage. “Understand that you are on thin fucking ice. I only came under the assumption that you were of good intent. The second you do anything like that wither skull thing, we are leaving and never looking back.” 

He shrugged. The malice inside him thought it didn’t matter either way. 

“You should probably get going. Don’t want him to get lost, do you?” He replied airily. 

Just as Sam made to move he paused - chat yelled at him to leave faster, if only so they could make preparations. “Be careful with him. That Tommy you’re angry at - the one that was angered himself, way too angry for a kid - he isn’t there anymore. It’s like all his rage disappeared.” 

Sam slammed the door behind him. From his window, he watched as soft green swallowed a spindly form. 

*** 

The first week with Tommy quickly became the most outlandish one he had ever experienced. 

Sam would drop Tommy off at random hours in the morning - citing a project or a secret or a simple warning look - before chancing one last glance and disappearing into the Nether. Tommy would then turn to him, bleary-eyed, before puckering his lips in an attempt to conceal the discomfort so obviously present. He would unceremoniously shove Tommy into his house and wait for something to save him from his topsy-turvy hell. 

Comfortingly, Tommy still kept his tendency to steal. 

The things he stole barely even constituted as possessions of greed - his fingers pilfered scraps of dried food, scraps of cloth, sticks. However, those objects were still his - he would loudly clear his throat and watch Tommy shrivel under the weight of his misdeeds. 

Although he always gave them back - oftentimes rambling about instinct and being unused to the toleration of asking - Techno doubted he would ever succeed in containing himself. 

Hence, why he dragged the weasel with him on a trip into the mines. 

“Thank you for bringing me down here, Mr. Techno,” Tommy politely said, the continuous bouncing of his eyes conveying anything but gratitude. “It’s. It’s very.” 

“Dark?” He supplied.

“Dark.” 

He huffed slightly, forcing himself to ignore the way Tommy’s scrunched nose reminded him of easy times. Instead, he focused on the gentle, uncoordinated footsteps whispering against the walls - by the time he had arrived in Pogtopia, Tommy had long before learned to stealth dangerous caverns. He didn’t bother to stop Tommy from accidentally walking into a sharp bend. 

“Ah fuck- sorry, sorry. It’s just so dark, I didn’t see where I was going,” Tommy hurriedly explained. He grunted in acknowledgement. 

They lapsed back into wordless quiet, his attention quickly slipping to the slope of the steps - he had mined each out meticulously, yet the darkness made each drop a gamble to take. Just as he made a note to restock the burnt-out lanterns, he heard a heavy thud at his side. 

"Did you fall?" He asked casually, listening to the frantic patter of Tommy re-orienting himself. 

"No."

He chose not to comment on the indignation coloring his voice. 

At last, he heard his footsteps suddenly echo against walls hundreds of feet above. Despite Tommy's sudden freeze he continued forward; he already knew each branching corridor, knew each row upon row of gutted material. A surge of pride washed through him. 

"Uh, Mr. Techno-” 

“We’re in the mines. The actual mines, not just the tunnel down.” He rifled through his pocket and pulled out a flint and steel - with an efficient flick, a few sparks lit up the darkness. “Here, watch this.” 

He swiped harshly at the steel again, instinctually directing the violent sparks off to the side. A grin stretched against his face at the sight of embers reviving in an unassuming basin. 

Fire roared into existence - with it, a chain reaction. 

Tommy yelled - like from his brain being too small to comprehend his majesty - as torches ignited in a wave of redstone and long days. He marvelled, smug, at the enormous cavern he had personally ensured the safety of; he fondly remembered the several monster nests he had cleared in one day. Despite the rows upon rows of uniform tunnels, he kept his eye on the one at the very edge. At the last second, he tossed his flint and steel squarely at Tommy's head. 

"Get yourself a torch," He explained - Tommy continued to look like a gaping fish. "We're going to one of the unfinished ones. It'll be darker there."

Tommy leaned down and picked up the flint and steel, rubbing the metal thoughtfully. Techno expected him to bounce back, shout, perhaps stumble in the way he did nowadays - instead of following, Tommy stayed still. 

"Are you, uh-"

His words died. 

Stupidly, only then did he realize the potential of their situation. 

Here they stood, settled at the mouth of a cavern adorned in the same dressings as Tommy's first exile - they only lacked a too-sharp madman to complete the ensemble. Their shortcomings, however, would likely be irrelevant. He could already see Tommy lose what small focus he had; without his grounding, Tommy's eyes wandered from rock to memory to rock.

He cleared his throat, discomfort rising at Tommy's lack of response. "You remembering anything?"

“A lot of things, actually.” Tommy looked as if he had tried to sound biting - in the end, he just came off as lost. 

"What are they?"

He glanced around again, eyes both seeing and not seeing at all. After a painfully slow moment, Tommy fixed his stare down at the metal in his hands.

Just before chat pressured him into throwing a bunch of buttons on the walls, Tommy spoke up. "Pogtopia. Bits of it. Like, up there should be a bridge, and right there should be the storage, and-"

Tommy's finger travelled through the air as he reminisced, his other still thumbing the flint and steel.

"That should be Wilbur's room," Tommy gasped, voice so filled with adoration it clenched around his heart and forced it to stop. 

He made an effort to speak up - by the time his mouth opened Tommy had already wandered deeper into the cavern. Mumblings began to intersperse with his breaths, mentions of old times and nonsense spilling from his lips.

Tommy stopped. Contorted his face in concentration. He took a few steps back - as if settling into place - and turned down to the steel quicker than livestock being tugged by the leash. 

"What do you have?" He asked, mostly to satiate the voices now chattering in curiosity. "Remember anything cool? Anything traumatic? If you aren't I can help-" 

A raised hand quieted his voice.

Tommy ghosted the edge of the steel against the palm of his hand, settling it into the mark cutting a line just below his fingertips. He carried it with precision - his brows furrowed intensely as he focused - and exhaled a breath as the long edge slotted perfectly into where his fingers could curl. It looked as if he had burned himself trying to grab an already-heated flint and steel. 

“Wilbur became a bit of a dick, didn't he?” He whispered, eyes still transfixed on the once unnoticeable scar. 

Before Techno could respond he moved again, hitching up several layers' worth of sleeve to expose his forearms. Inklings of revulsion curled into his stomach - Tommy, eyes glinting with a morbid sort of fascination, simply soaked in the sight of his arms. Just as he did with his palm, he glided the steel against his skin - with it, revealing the near-invisible indentations characteristic of faded burns. 

"I remember these," Tommy rasped, tracing long paths someone else had trekked before. "He- he fucking- he- shit."

He threw the flint and steel down with a clatter. Techno remembered that he should breathe.

"You were there, weren't you?" Tommy said eventually, words weak and back hunched. He stumbled slightly in his next step. Memories of his own resurfaced, ones of betrayal and dehumanization and hurt.

"I was," He replied, avoiding the growing urge to list each shred of pain Tommy had inflicted. "You and Wilbur called on me to help. I came down with resources, brought you guys back to your feet. You were wearing my armor when you 'reclaimed' your country."

The wounded inside him asked for Tommy's head. The rational inside him whispered nostalgic sweet thoughts.

“Wow Techno,” Tommy looked up at him, grin sickeningly genuine and hopeful. “We must have been good friends, right?” 

Pain stabbed through his chest.

“I wouldn’t have called us friends,” Techno lied.

***

He first saw hints of old Tommy when Phil walked in without notice. 

Tommy had frozen, his entire body halting as his mind pieced together its initial reactions. After a few seconds, it decided the best plan would be to rile in anger and begin steaming at the ears. 

“I don’t know why,” Tommy had said, so similar to his old self in a curiously painful way. “But I really hate you. I really, really dislike you a lot. I- I want to fucking cuss you out, I-” 

He had watched Phil immediately curl under the verbal blow. He had seen Tommy stumble through his own mental conflict, the senseless instincts of old clashing with his perception. He had caught the ripples of fear lacing through Tommy’s characteristic anger.

Belatedly, he realized that fear was not a new edition. Tommy - even with his memories, with his past - would always curl his shoulders in when enraged. 

He didn’t know what to think. 

A part of him wondered if he really wanted old Tommy back. 

*** 

The days began to stretch, the sun creeping out of its home below the horizon for longer periods of time; he welcomed the warmer temperatures, as did his crops. 

Tommy continued to remember. 

It began in small bursts, small flashes - he would jab mean-spirited and Tommy would respond with a snarl, he would motion to his stolen items and Tommy would freeze with rage, he would swing his axe and Tommy would glare suspiciously. They all, however, never lasted long. The ignition of his anger never resulted in a catastrophic boom, just a look of confusion and a shake. 

Soon, however, even the confusion disappeared. 

He began to steal more extravagantly, eyes flashing and teeth bared as if he both wanted to elicit a reaction and didn’t like said reaction at all. He began to shout intentionally, even as he flinched at his own voice. He began to look at Techno with the beginnings of distrust, the emotion warring with the same naive hope that never failed to make him nauseous. 

Tommy stopped smiling brightly at anyone other than Sam. Perhaps he smiled at others, exposed the radiant delight Techno had never even known there - yet in the tundra, in his home, Tommy stopped showing his genuine grins. 

The detached reminded him of his original plan, of his original reason as to why he tolerated Tommy’s presence. He wondered why the thought now ached. 

*** 

“He’s getting more of them. The traumatic ones, I mean,” Sam whispered, the hands clenched around his cup barely visible in evening light. “He’s- I’m just grateful he’s getting them slowly. I have no idea how he went so long without breaking down completely.”

He hummed quietly. The weight of the conversation felt unwieldy in his hands. 

“I think he’s going to get the worst of them soon. And- I may not know the specifics, but I know you played a big role in them all. When he gets them, we’re going to stop visiting.” 

“Makes no difference to me,” He responded. The words tasted of ash.

***

He got them back in Techno’s armory, apparently.

The only sign of their appearance was how - for no good reason - Tommy teetered away, dangerously close to a rack of repair-needing swords. He nearly yelled out a warning before it withered on his tongue; there - in Tommy’s fumbling, annoyingly endearing hands - rested a worn crossbow and colorful ammo. A pit of despair - grief, perhaps, or relief - burrowed into his stomach and raked just where he couldn’t protect. 

“You were supposed to be organizing the helmets,” He said quietly - their uselessness substituted in well for his pain. 

Tommy snorted, his entire form trembling and breaths erratic. “F-f-fat lot of h-help that was, innit?” 

“You could have just stayed in that section,” He tried again. Tommy stared at him, pupils barely visible and never settling in one place.

“And leave them for another day?” 

He reached out his hand in some modicum of comfort - Tommy had re-lived painful scenes before, ones where his entirety froze before cracking at the seams. By now, he knew the plan of action in tedious detail; he would reach a hand out to gauge a response - when Tommy accepted, physical contact made the ride much less draining - he would talk him back into the present, he would let Tommy reassemble himself with his new piece. If he wanted to, he could likely drag Tommy back with both his eyes closed. He kept his hand outstretched despite the churning in his gut. 

Tommy scrambled away from him, chest always facing his direction and teeth bared. 

“Fuck off,” Tommy rasped, the wild gale in his eyes puncturing deeper than expected. “You’ve a-a-already done e-enough, Blade. Fuck off.” 

Idly, his hands grabbed for strings. Perhaps if he pulled the right strand of time, he could ease the tar in his chest. 

“Breathe with me Tommy. Remember how we do it?” He attempted once more. The reason as to why he continued remained unknown - or, in some bitter form of irony that gave him the urge to scream, he forgot it. 

Tommy’s glare only held his characteristic rage. 

Just a few days before - a few weeks - Tommy had smiled at him, tentative and restrained in the way only acquaintances greeted possible friends. 

He had grown too fond of this Tommy - the one that let jokes and admiration spill from his lips so freely, the one that smiled so brightly without the weight of the world, the one that used his determination to create pranks and find the perfect trees to sit under.

He realized that he had killed that Tommy before they could properly meet. Maybe they all had.

“Leave me a-alone,” Tommy snarled. “I don’t g-give a shit if you- that you h-helped- fucking leave me alone!” 

“What do you remember?” 

Perhaps something could be salvaged. Something could be made. Something could be saved, reformed, healed. He had never been one to repair something completely shattered - he still hoped to find enough shards. 

The entirety of his face - even his eyes - colored red. “Everything, Blade. Fucking everything.” 

Tommy’s back slammed against the wall - just by the rack of weapons he had begun preparing for no one in particular - his scarred fingers digging into his eyes as if to blind him to the truth. “The-the main event of the festival. L’manberg’s s-second d- Doomsday. The- the- all of it, fucking all of it. I need- I need you to fucking leave!” 

Silence - silence Tommy filled with scattered gasps, not his outrageous banter - left him with only his displaced insides and a void eating away. He could barely hear his pulse, hear the voices, hear anything. The only thing in his focus - in his world - was the glaring, spitting form both huddling into his wall and looking as if he wanted to leave entirely. 

He had gotten what he had wanted. 

Suddenly, he hated himself more than the world. 

“Is that it?” He yelled bitterly, a desperation he had long thought buried crawling up his throat. “You remember everything and life goes back to how it was?” 

“D-did you expect anything different?”

The raw, unfiltered ire seeping into every crack of Tommy’s voice clung to the lines forming on his mind’s surface. The air formed hands to press into his neck, the voices grew barbs to sting into his skull - they pushed, pulled, forced him to play his former lines as the shunned, the angry, the bitter. It seemed a miracle that they remained unnoticed in his mind. They had, however, made one crucial mistake. 

They had pushed too far in the direction he didn’t want. 

He looked inside himself - at the hatred still fitting into areas it never should have been, at the malice he had adopted just as a means to protect, at the vulnerable points still aching from being prodded. 

He took hold of it all and refused to let it follow his steps into the future. 

“I don’t know,” He said finally. Tommy snapped up, brows furrowed as he scrambled together any sort of defense - any sort of wall. 

The backs of his legs met the stone floor, his voice frustratingly small as he continued. “In the beginning, I expected to, uh, give due punishment- nevermind. I just- you’ve grown on me. Which is disgusting, how dare you make me feel things. I don’t know, you’ve really just- I know that you’ve used me, and betrayed me, and-” 

“You just g-going to grill me or some shit?” 

“Let me finish,” He gathered up the last of his courage and exhaled a breath. “I think- I think I didn’t cut you enough slack. And now that I’ve seen you when you aren’t being completely haughty and undermining me completely- well. I did respect you before. Liked you even. I- I don’t think those feelings ever left.” 

“Wha-what, d-do you want to compromise? B-become fucking- become friends?” Tommy jabbed weakly. His energy didn’t back the words with any vitriol, leaving a clear space for far-fetched longings to shine through. 

He nodded. 

Tommy looked him in the eyes, shoulders still shaking and curling from the blows of his own history. With the strength of a soldier, the mind of an old diplomat, the heart of himself - he gave a weary, hopeful grin. 

Techno shook away the chains of their past and shot a grin right back.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey chads!! I hope you enjoyed me taking a simple concept and then branching off entirely to add mushy feelings and shit hAH
> 
> Also, funny story - I started writing this before Sam Nook made his debut! I don't know what that says about how long it takes for me to finish fics-


End file.
